The Earl's Wager for a Lady
Auteur
Helen Dickson
Lezers
15,9K
Hoofdstukken
12
Chapter One
With yet another busy day ahead of her, protected from the sun by a broad straw hat covering hair the colour of ripe corn, and wearing a cornflower-blue dress that had seen better days, Eve left the house and headed for the fields beyond the walls that surrounded The Grange—a beautiful old house encircled by stately elms. The sky was soft with sunrise washing the land in its golden light. Swallows swooped above the poppies edging the field, crimson against the golden corn.
Eve sighed, pausing to let her gaze take everything in. This was her favourite time of day, the quietness soon to be broken by the day’s back-breaking toil to get in the corn before the weather broke.
Suddenly a gunshot pierced the air. A flock of birds rose up into the sky, flapping their wings and squawking furiously at being disturbed. Alarmed, Eve set off towards where the sound had come from to investigate, covering the ground at a run. She reached the road that threaded its way through the density of the woods on either side. The sight that met her eyes halted her in her tracks. Quickly she assessed the scene and the situation. A man was lying on the dew-soaked grass with blood oozing from a shoulder wound. His terrified horse stood trembling close by. But what held her attention the most was her brother, Robert, standing some distance away holding a rifle, a look of abject horror on his young face.
‘Robert! What have you done?’
‘I—I didn’t do anything. I was out hunting rabbits and... Is—is he dead?’ he asked.
Immediately Eve sprang into action, falling to her knees beside the recumbent man. Placing her hand on his jacket, she uttered a sigh of relief on feeling the rise and fall of his chest.
‘No, thank God, he’s still breathing.’
‘That’s a relief,’ the man uttered, opening his eyes and fixing them on her face, lowered over his.
Eve fell back on her haunches, staring at him, unable to comprehend for the moment what could have happened. The man’s voice was firm and sure. His face was handsome, recklessly so, lean and hard, his jaw uncompromisingly square. He had fine dark brows that curved neatly and a firm but almost sensuous mouth. His clothes beneath the dust were of the finest quality that could only have come from one of London’s foremost tailors, indicating that he had ridden far. He’d shed his hat in the fall and his dark hair was tumbled and gleamed beneath the morning sun slanting through the trees. She gazed down into two crystal-clear eyes beneath winged black brows. There was a vibrant life and intensity in those eyes, silver-grey and brilliant.
‘You are wounded,’ Eve said, her gaze drawn to the shoulder of the man’s jacket, seeing blood seeping through. ‘Let’s hope it isn’t serious.’
He raised himself up with difficulty, wincing as a piercing pain shot through his shoulder. Propping himself against the stout trunk of a tree, he closed his eyes and rested his head back, breathing heavily.
Without more ado Eve briskly unfastened his blood-soaked jacket, loosened his neck cloth and waistcoat and opened his shirt, her expression schooled to impassivity as she examined the wound. Getting to her feet, she pulled up her skirt and ripped a strip off her petticoat. Folding it into a wad, she pressed it against the torn flesh to staunch the bleeding.
‘It’s a superficial wound, so you’ve been lucky.’
‘Lucky?’ he retorted sarcastically. ‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘Here.’ Taking the man’s hand, she placed it on the cloth over the wound. ‘Press hard,’ she commanded. ‘We’ll go to the house and I’ll dress it properly.’
There’s no need for that. Help me to my horse and I’ll be on my way. My physician will take a look at it.’
‘Please don’t argue. You are in no position to object. The house isn’t very far.’ Getting to her feet, she turned to Robert. ‘Give us a hand, Robert.’
‘I take it this is the young man who shot me.’
‘It would appear so,’ Eve replied, unable even to consider the consequences of what Robert had done or how such a thing could have happened when he had left the house earlier to hunt rabbits. ‘I’m sure all will be revealed later, but for now your wound needs tending. If the shot is still in there, it will have to be removed, but I think we’ll find it’s just a flesh wound.’
Together they helped him to his feet. He swayed, supporting himself against the tree. ‘Help me to my horse, will you?’
‘It would be inadvisable and foolish of you to ride after sustaining a wound like that. There is every possibility that you would fall off and incur a more severe injury, which could very well incapacitate you for some time.’
‘Perish the thought,’ the man uttered dryly.
‘Precisely. Robert, take the horse. Now, come along,’ Eve said to the stranger, handing Robert her hat. Taking the man’s arm, she draped it about her shoulders. ‘If you lean on me, we will be at the house in no time. Keep your hand pressed over the wound.’
‘I am impressed by your efficiency, Miss...?’
‘Mrs,’ she provided. ‘Mrs Eve Lansbury.’
‘Ah—Matthew Lansbury’s wife.’
‘Widow,’ she corrected.
He paused and looked at her closely. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Lansbury.’ He hesitated and closed his eyes as a wave of haziness seemed to sweep over him. ‘What in damnation has happened to me?’
‘You’ve been shot—and please don’t swear,’ Eve rebuked. ‘There is a time and place for obscene language, and this is not it, so I would be grateful if you would keep a tight rein on your tongue.’
His lips twitched as he looked down into her upturned face and managed to suppress a smile. ‘I apologise. I quite forgot myself and stand rebuked. I did not mean to be disrespectful.’
‘Thank you. Now, come along before you bleed to death.’
Without another word, she walked him unceremoniously back to the house. Halfway there, she was sure he was capable of walking by himself, but he seemed content to let her take some of his weight. Having made a quick assessment of his character, she thought here was a man who inspired awe in all those he met, that he was unreadable and single-minded. This was as close as she had been to any man since Matthew had died. With the man’s arm draped about her shoulders, she could feel the heat of him, the vigour of him, the toughness, the power of his arm and the fine aroma of cigars and brandy on his breath that fanned her cheek.
On reaching the house, with one hand she raised her skirt to climb the steps, revealing the stout boots she wore in the fields.
‘That’s a fine pair of boots you are wearing. The army could march into battle with such sturdy boots.’
Dropping her skirt, Eve glanced up at him. ‘And you would know that, would you...?’
‘Lord Levisham—Maxim Randall—and, yes, I would, although some of the boots my men had to wear were nowhere near as good quality.’
‘They’ve seen better days, but they still serve me well enough.’
Having taken note of his identity, an odd expression crossed Eve’s face as she scrutinised him, and in her eyes was a deeply rooted dislike which he noticed. He studied her, a little amused, a little curious, a little derisive.
‘When I see a look like that, it tells me you’ve heard of me.’
‘Considering you are my neighbour, give or take a few miles, yes, your name is familiar to me.’
This was true. She was also aware—as was everyone else—that, since the death of his brother in a hunting accident, he had inherited his title and the Netherthorpe estate. What Eve had heard of her illustrious neighbour had given her no desire ever to meet him. Perhaps thirty years of age, everything about him was elegantly aristocratic, exuding power and a sense of force. According to the local rumour mill, he was an arrogant man who, when on respite from military duties, thought he could do as he pleased with whomever he pleased. Gossip had linked him to several beautiful women in London and his scandals were infamous. Any sensible young woman mindful of her reputation would be best advised to keep well out of his way.
Eve helped him into the house. ‘There,’ she said, separating herself from him. ‘I think you are capable of walking by yourself now. Come this way,’ she ordered, going ahead of him into the drawing room and indicating that he should sit on a sofa close to the window. Excusing herself, she smoothed down her skirts and hastened to the kitchen.
Agatha Lupton, the housekeeper of many years at The Grange, was preparing the evening meal. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up as she rolled out pastry to cover the meat pie she was making for dinner, a dusting of flour on her cheek. She glanced up at her mistress but didn’t pause in her work.
‘What is it that’s got you into such a flap?’ Agatha asked, having noted her mistress’s flushed face.
‘We have a bit of a crisis, Agatha,’ Eve said, filling a bowl with water and gathering dressings from a cupboard that accommodated such things. ‘The new Lord Levisham of Netherthorpe has been shot and needs attention.’
Agatha paused her rolling, her eyes opening wide with amazement. ‘Good Lord! Lord Levisham, you say? The Earl of Levisham? Shot? Who on earth would do such a thing?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Eve answered, reluctant to incriminate her brother until she heard what he had to say. ‘There will be time for questions later. Fortunately, the wound is superficial and not life-threatening.’
‘Sal is upstairs cleaning the nursery. Shall I give her a shout?’
‘No, leave her. I can manage.’
‘What’s he like—this new earl? Anything like the last?’
‘Never having moved in the same circles as Andrew Randall, I didn’t know him well enough to form an opinion. From what I remember—having only met him once, and from seeing him in church occasionally—they share a likeness, although I think the present Lord Levisham to be slightly taller than his brother. The sooner I’ve dressed his wound and he is on his way to Netherthorpe, the better I shall feel.’
Returning to the drawing room with water and items she would need to dress the wound, and placing the bowl on a small table beside her, Eve carefully peeled away the blood-soaked cloth from Lord Levisham’s shoulder. His bare, muscled arm and shoulder gleamed in the soft light. Thankfully, the wound wasn’t bleeding quite so much.
Prising the wound open to inspect it for shot, and satisfied it was clean and no danger to his life, she dipped a cloth into the water and proceeded to clean it. His expression tightened and he gritted his teeth. Her heart wrenched, having no wish to cause him pain. It was excruciatingly intimate to touch his flesh. It was warm and firm. He was strong and sleek but not gaunt, all sinew and strength, his muscles solid where her fingers touched. Her hands worked quickly and efficiently.
‘I think you’ll live to see another day,’ she said, trying to keep her attention fixed on the raw wound, forcing herself not to think about his manly physique. ‘You might wish to let your physician take a look at it but it’s just a flesh wound and will soon heal.’
‘I have every confidence that your ministering will be sufficient.’
‘The dressing will have to be changed frequently until it begins to heal. I’m sure someone will attend to it for you. Would I be correct in thinking you have just returned from foreign parts?’
‘You would. The Peninsular. It’s kind of you to do this.’
‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said, glancing at her brother hovering in the doorway still holding the rifle, noting his ashen face. ‘You’d better go and lock that away, Robert, before you shoot someone else.’
‘But—I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t.’
Lord Levisham’s eyes settled on him, calm and assessing. ‘I can’t believe that I’ve been fighting the French these past four years or more, getting shot at and escaping canon—only to come home to fall at a young man out hunting rabbits. I beg you not to spread it abroad. It will do nothing for my reputation.’
The tone of his voice was sarcastic and mocking. It did nothing for Eve’s temper. ‘Perhaps you should hear what my brother has to say. If he says he didn’t do it, then I believe him. He is not a liar, Lord Levisham.’
Relieved to hear his sister’s defence, Robert came further into the room. ‘That’s right. I hadn’t fired my rifle all morning. Here,’ he said, shoving it under Lord Levisham’s nose. ‘If I had, you would be able to tell.’
‘Then if you didn’t shoot me, who did?’
‘I have no idea. The shot came from the opposite direction from where I was standing.’
Lord Levisham became thoughtful. The lines on his face and creases around his eyes made him look amiable, but his eyes were as impenetrable as stone. Then he nodded. ‘Very well. I believe you.’ He shoved the barrel of the gun away from his face. ‘I am beginning to realise that I was the intended target, not a rabbit after all, and I mean to find out who is responsible. Did you happen to see anyone—someone acting suspiciously?’
‘Yes. I saw a man disappear into the trees. I didn’t see his face. He was wearing dark clothes with a hat pulled well down over his face.’
‘His horse? What colour was it—brown, black?’ Lord Levisham demanded.
‘Dark brown—but on hearing the shot I was more concerned about what had occurred than to take note of what the man and his horse looked like.’
His expression grim, Lord Levisham nodded. ‘Whoever it was must have known I was riding to Netherthorpe. He must have been waiting for me. He didn’t try to rob me, so I must assume he had murder in mind. There was no warning. Nothing. If he was prepared to try once, he’ll not let it alone.’
Eve paused in her work and looked at him. ‘Then you will have to look to your safety, Lord Levishan, and take all due care.’
‘I intend to. I’m not the sort who jumps at shadows, and nor do I run from threats. As a soldier I had to watch my back—I didn’t realise I would have to continue doing so at home.’
‘It would seem you have an enemy, one who hates you enough to want you dead. I’m sure Lord Levisham’s nerves have taken a shock, Robert. Pour him a brandy and then go and put the rifle back. You know I hate firearms.’
Robert did as she bade, pouring out and handing Lord Levisham his brandy then disappearing.
‘Robert is to leave for Woolwich shortly—to join the Royal Artillery. He’s excited to be going.’
‘I did my training at Woolwich. With any luck, the war in the Peninsula will be over by the time he passes out.’
‘I sincerely hope so. If only the allies can beat Bonaparte, at least the war would be over.’
Eve carried on cleaning the wound, applying a healing salve when she was satisfied. ‘You won’t be returning to your regiment, Lord Levisham?’
‘I’ve worn the uniform for so long it had almost become a part of me,’ he said, his voice rich-textured and deep. ‘But, no, I won’t be going back.’
Raising her eyes, Eve looked at him steadily. ‘Do I detect a note of regret?’
He nodded slightly. ‘Perhaps—although, after twelve years of military service, it won’t be easy adjusting to being a civilian again.’
‘So, you have dispensed with your military attire,’ she said, the cut and seam of his coat evidence of the tailoring only noblemen could afford. ‘Your tailor must delight in the opportunity to clothe such an illustrious hero of the wars with Bonaparte. Why,’ she said on a note of amusement, ‘A gentleman with such expensive and stylish apparel will be the envy of every roué in London.’
‘I count myself fortunate in my tailor, who has made my wardrobe for a good many years—military uniforms, mainly. Now I have retired from military life, he is delighted at the opportunity to finally outfit me with all the clothes of a gentleman.’
‘Indeed. I think even that master of style and fashion, Mr Brummel, will have to sit up and take notice.’ Catching his look of surprise, she laughed. ‘Oh yes, Lord Levisham. I may be a country girl, and spend every minute of my time running The Grange, but I do go to London on occasion—I have family in Kensington. Even I have heard of the flamboyant Mr Brummel.’
‘There are few who haven’t. My tailor is a man of sober tastes, and it would go against the grain to kit me out in garish garb—and I have no desire to emulate the overdressed Beau Brummel. Besides, the last I heard was that that particular gentleman has fallen out of favour with Prince George. It is also rumoured that he is heavily in debt and no longer as stylishly garbed as he once was.’ He frowned at Eve as she continued to tend his wound. ‘Was your comment about my attire because you find it flawed in some way?’
‘No, not at all. In fact, I must commend your tailor’s abilities, although I imagine he would be terribly put out if he were to see the state of your jacket. I—I was so sorry to hear about your brother. Indeed, the whole county was shocked. It was a terrible tragedy.’
‘Yes—yes, it was,’ Lord Levisham said sharply, his expression telling Eve that he had no wish to discuss the matter further. ‘Your workers will be busy with the harvest at this time,’ he remarked on a change of subject, watching her face closely.
‘We start tomorrow—at least, that is what I hope—if I can get some labour to give us a hand.’
‘You have no itinerant workers?’
‘No. Not this year.’
‘And why is that? There is no shortage of people wanting work at this time.’
‘I know, but this year is different. It’s always a matter for worry during harvest that everything goes like clockwork—providing the weather holds. With everyone else round about harvesting, workers are in demand. We are usually fortunate. Those who worked here in the past often come back. This year is different.’
‘What is different about this year?’
‘Sir Oscar Devlin has taken them for a few shillings more than I can pay, so those who have been coming to The Grange for years have now gone to him.’
‘But what of their loyalty to you?’
She shrugged. ‘That doesn’t count when money is involved.’
‘Can’t you go and see him—explain that you cannot do without them?’
She shook her head. ‘Sir Oscar Devlin is the last man I would ask favours of. I would not dream of it. I cannot blame the workers. They have families to support. Every penny counts. We’ll just have to manage. Every year it seems there is a curse on the harvest. If it isn’t the weather that is against us, it’s the yield. The harvest was poor last year and the year before that—as it was with other farmers. This year it’s the lack of workers. We cannot win.’
‘You work in the fields?’
‘Not only do I supervise the work, I have to do my bit—even more so with the lack of labour. There’s always so much to do, running a place like this, but this is an exceptionally busy time. Getting the corn in before the weather breaks is my priority.’
He surprised her by taking her hand and running his thumb over the calluses on her palm. ‘I see you work hard. Field work is not for ladies.’
‘I’m no wilting flower, Lord Levisham—and I am no lady,’ she said, retrieving her hand. ‘I know that what I do is frowned upon by those in the village. I’m talked about—something of a curiosity—but it doesn’t bother me. I just get on with what has to be done and going unnoticed serves me well. The land remains the same, always. It doesn’t judge. Besides, the band of field workers who usually come to The Grange at this time of year are made of women and children. Why should I be any different?’
‘And your reputation?’
‘What reputation? I am aware that I am a provider of entertainment in Woodgreen—with any luck it will continue to be so for years to come. It doesn’t concern me in the slightest, so please don’t bore me with that argument.’
‘I won’t.’
‘That’s a relief.’
Eve was silent as she applied a bandage to his wound, feeling his eyes on her all the while. How could she tell this man how bad things were? They had never been so bad. Every penny they made, she ploughed back into the business. Life was hard, and regret was useless, but it still caught in her throat and weighed her down.
‘So, you have issues with Oscar Devlin.’
‘A few. He wants everyone in and around Woodgreen to realise that he is master—he does own most of the land. There is only the land here—and of course some of the Netherthorpe land, which belongs to you and which is beyond his jurisdiction, but he is not averse to trying to claim some of it one way or another.’
‘By hook or by crook, if what I know of him is true.’
‘Yes. He wants me to sell him some of our prime land to build houses for his workers and he’s determined to wear me down to get it. So far I’ve refused to oblige.’ This was true. Sir Oscar was one of the more affluent gentlemen of Woodgreen. He farmed five hundred acres and was a businessman, with employees and obligations, with an eye to expand.
‘You are a fighter, Mrs Lansbury. That is obvious.’
She met his eyes directly. ‘I have to be. There is no other way. When Matthew died, I was determined to succeed against all the odds. I’m never giving up, not until the last field has been cleared and the last husk of corn has been gathered up—and even then I’ll plant more and start again.’
There was a glimmer of admiration in Lord Levisham’s eyes. ‘I salute you,’ he said as his lips broke a warm-hearted smile. ‘Hold your head high. Let Devlin see your determination and ambitions are not to be thwarted. But he is a powerful man—and creative and subtle in his dealings with others,’ he said softly, almost to himself. ‘My brother has had issues over land with him in the past, and he is persistent.’
Eve looked at him sharply and then looked away. If Lord Levisham also had issues with Sir Oscar, it was not her business. Had she not enough to contend with without taking on anyone else’s troubles? ‘I’m not afraid of Sir Oscar Devlin.’
‘No, maybe not, but be warned—Woodgreen is a small town and everyone has to live together. Like it or not, Sir Oscar is a powerful opponent.’
‘He’s not used to anyone saying no to him, that’s his trouble.’ Having finished dressing his wound, Eve handed him his jacket. ‘It’s ruined, I’m afraid, but I have no doubt you have more.’
‘I have indeed.’ Getting up, he swallowed what was left of his brandy.
Suddenly the door swung open and a child fell in—a bundle of strawberry curls and bright-green eyes. Getting to his feet, he ran towards Eve on wobbly legs and hid behind her skirts. A young woman came in after him. Seeing him peeking from behind his mother’s skirts, she rushed over to him.
‘There you are, you little scamp.’ The child giggled when she scooped him up into her arms and he folded himself into her. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Lansbury. He wanted to see you and there was no stopping him.’
Eve laughed, always delighted to see her son. He was the joy, the love, of her life. Everything she did was always with him in mind. ‘That’s all right, Nessa.’ She turned to Lord Levisham. ‘Let me introduce you to Christopher, my three-year-old rascal son, Lord Levisham. As you see, he is a quite a handful.’
Lord Levisham smiled as Christopher waved a chubby fist at him, not at all fazed by this imperiously masculine stranger in his mother’s drawing room.
‘Give him his breakfast, Nessa, and then see that he plays in the garden.’
‘I will,’ Nessa replied, bobbing a little curtsey and taking the child out.
‘He’s a fine boy,’ Lord Levisham said as he walked to the door.
‘Yes, he is.’ Eve’s urge to protect her son was overwhelming. ‘The Grange is Christopher’s inheritance. I have to make sure his future is secured.’
‘Which is the reason why you work so hard. And so you should. Thank you for this,’ he said, indicating his shoulder. ‘It’s fortunate you were on hand. Who knows? Whoever it was that tried to kill me might have taken advantage of my weakened state and come back to finish me off.’
‘Why would someone want you dead? An irate husband, perhaps? You do have a reputation of being something of a lothario, Lord Levisham,’ she remarked, laughing lightly, a teasing light dancing in the depths of her soft brown eyes.
He cocked an eyebrow at her in mock offence, a smile twitching his lips. ‘Are you saying that you are not surprised someone might want to shoot me, Mrs Lansbury?’
‘Not really. Your reputation has preceded you. According to gossip, you are the sort of arrogant lord who would collect enemies with the same ease as one would collect snuff boxes. Not to mention the fact that you are a renowned rake who has seduced your way through England and the entire Peninsula. I wonder, your reputation being what it is, that some irate father or husband hasn’t taken a pot shot at you already.’
Not in the least offended, Lord Levisham threw back his head and laughed loudly. ‘I can see I shall have to watch my manners where you are concerned, Mrs Lansbury. Although, in my own defence, I must point out that my character has been somewhat maligned by those who have nothing better to do than spread tittle-tattle, for that’s all it is. Do not believe all you hear.’
‘I don’t,’ she replied, laughing softly. ‘I’m sure there has been a certain amount of exaggeration. I shall reserve judgment.’
‘Thank you. That is indeed generous of you.’
Eve followed him outside where Robert was holding his horse, having pacified it.
‘You have been a very gracious hostess, Mrs Lansbury. Thank you.’
‘I can be charming on occasion.’
He smiled. ‘I suppose we all can. It shows our qualities as well as our faults. Although, you are not my idea of what a farmer’s widow should look like.’
‘Oh? And how would you define a farmer’s widow, Lord Levisham?’ A challenging light gleamed in her eyes.
‘A middle-aged, fierce matron with white hair—’
‘And a black cat and a broomstick, no doubt,’ she quipped with a wry laugh. ‘If things carry on as they have been doing for the past two years, you won’t be far from the truth. When Matthew died, I had no idea how bad things were. I soon found out. As soon as everyone knew he had died, they were all tripping over each other to call in their debts. I paid them, relying on the harvest to cover the cost and see us through to the next year. But it didn’t work out like that.’
‘Are there no relatives you can turn to to relieve your hardships?’
‘Matthew had no family—not that I know of. If he had, they would be distant relatives and not part of his life. I have family of my own, but I refuse to concern them with my troubles.’
Taking hold of the bridle, Lord Levisham turned to face her, his expression serious. ‘Heed my words about Oscar Devlin. I did not speak lightly. I hope the harvest goes well.’
‘As to that, we shall have to see. Every day I pray for a miracle—but why am I telling you, a stranger? Please go on your way and forget the Widow Lansbury.’ She looked at him, seeing his raised eyebrows and how his silver-grey eyes looked into hers. His mouth had begun to curl, to lift in a smile of sardonic, knowing humour.
‘If only it was that simple.’ His white teeth gleamed, and his bold eyes laughed at her. ‘It will be no easy matter forgetting you.’
She laughed. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage to do that.’
‘While ever you are my neighbour, that will be difficult.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. The administration of The Grange is my responsibility until Christopher is of an age to do it himself. There is no one else.’
‘And if your son doesn’t want to be a farmer, what then?’
‘It will be up to him. He can sell The Grange to someone else. It has to be his decision to make. In the meantime, I will continue to administer it to the best of my ability.’
‘And, should you decide to marry again, what will you do?’
‘That is something I shall have to consider very carefully.’
‘You should marry a wealthy man. It would be the end to all your troubles.’
‘And present me with new ones. I’ve been married. I didn’t like it, not one bit. It will take someone very special to tempt me a second time.’ She stepped back as he swung himself up into the saddle. ‘Good day, Lord Levisham.’
He touched his tall hat, which Robert had retrieved. ‘Good day, Mrs Lansbury.’
Eve stood and watched him ride away, standing in the warm glow of the sun. It wasn’t the only reason she felt a warm glow as she continued to watch Lord Levisham’s receding figure. When she’d stood close to him their gazes had met and lingered. Brief as such a moment of unspoken communication had been, it had been enough to cause her heart to flutter and heat to course through her body.
She had told him about her fears for the harvest and her commitment to The Grange. What she had not told him was of the sheer loneliness of being a woman trying to run a business against the opposition of her neighbours, or her bitterness at losing her husband to another woman—before he’d accidentally shot and killed himself.
She had met Matthew in London. He had escorted her to the theatre and soirees and, flattered by the attention he had showered on her, she had enjoyed being with him. Handsome, charming and well mannered, as an impressionable eighteen-year-old she had liked him and truly thought she could learn to love him—only to discover after the wedding that he had only married her for her generous dowry to shore up his own depleted finances.
After his death she had wondered how on earth she would cope without him, and the strain of having a six-month-old child to take care of had been so great that it was a miracle she’d managed to survive. But she had carried on, surprising herself. The agony she had felt upon discovering that he was in a relationship with another woman had shocked and hurt her deeply. When she had questioned him about his affair, he had turned on her, telling her just to be thankful that he had married her; to be grateful.
There was no help for it. She hadn’t been able to undo her marriage, so she’d endured it. Feeling betrayed and degraded, it had been many months after his death before she’d been able to think of him in a cool-headed and unemotional way. It was her pride that kept her body and head up. It was her pride that was wrenched by his infidelities, not her heart.
She vowed that never again would she show fear or apprehension to any man, especially not one who would try to control and dominate her. Whatever feelings she’d had for Matthew had died along with him. They had both delighted in the birth of their son. Matthew had been so proud of him. Christopher was beautiful, perfect and healthy and with him hope had returned following Matthew’s death.
Shoving the reminders of her past to the back of her mind, Eve continued to watch Lord Levisham disappear along the road that would take him to Netherthorpe, the grand country estate that had belonged to the Randall family for generations.
She was affected more than she could have imagined by the strange encounter with her illustrious neighbour. There was an aggressive confidence and strength of purpose about him, and he had the air of a clever man who succeeded in all he set out to achieve. Her instinct told her that he was a man with many shades to his nature, from the arrogant lift of his dark head and casual stance, a man with a sense of his own infallibility. Was what she had heard about him true? she wondered. Was he all that people said of him?
Secure in the knowledge that she would never know, on a sigh she went back inside to her study and opened the accounts ledger, flicking through the pages. The neat rows of figures looked exactly as they had the day before and the day before that. While Henry Doyle oversaw the farming side of things, Eve took care of the running of the house and did all the bookwork, keeping a tight rein on income and expenditure—the latter being greater than the former. This division of labour suited them both ideally, but Eve was not too proud to don her boots and work clothes and give a hand at busy times.
Sitting back in the chair, she thought back to how it had been on her marriage when Matthew had brought her to The Grange when, with the benefit of her dowry, everything that had been needed for their comfort had been in plentiful supply. They had entertained and been entertained by friends and neighbours. Now there was no time or money for fancy dinner parties. Then the stables had been filled with fine horses—the only horses that occupied the stables now were heavy, sturdy horses capable of working the land, and one for her to ride and pull the carriage.
Taking a key from her pocket, she placed it in the lock of a drawer in the desk and pulled it open. Taking out a small box, she opened it. On a bed of purple velvet lay a link of pearls. She fingered it lovingly. It had been her mother’s, the only thing of value she’d possessed. It was with a heavy heart that she replaced it and locked the drawer. It would have to go. She would travel into Woodgreen tomorrow morning. There were pictures and other articles of value in the house she could sell, but those things belonged to Christopher, left to him by Matthew for his son’s future.
Closing the heavy ledger, she left the study and marched into the hall, grabbing her hat and heading for the fields. The responsibility of the house, the land and those who depended on her was pushing her deeper into despair. But what was the use in worrying about it? What would be would be, so she had better press on and get on with saving this harvest. At least today the weather wasn’t against her, which was a blessing.
As Maxim left The Grange and its mistress standing on the steps as he rode away, he tried to define what had been so attractive about her. She certainly wasn’t plain. She was tall and as slender as a greyhound. Her features were unusually striking—high cheekbones and eyes that reminded him of warm brown cognac, with dark lashes beneath the swooping arch of her eyebrows. Her real physical confidence was sensual and, despite her widowed state, there had been an assured, innocent vanity in her smile.
He was stunned by the experience he’d undergone. It wasn’t just the widow’s looks that had gripped him. She’d had an aura about her, some indefinable presence. He was no believer in fate, yet something had happened between them from the moment she had appeared in the woods. She’d felt it too. He’d seen it on her face.
He did wonder what her husband had done to her to deserve such bitterness. He couldn’t remember a woman ever talking to him with such unaffected candour as she had. He liked the way she’d tilted her head to one side when she’d looked at him, and the way her shining hair, the colour of ripe corn, had been drawn from her face and fastened into a heavy chignon at the back of her head. He also liked the way she’d talked openly to him and the way there’d been something both innocent and knowing about her. He had never met anyone like her—but then, he hadn’t been anywhere to meet anyone like her in a long time.
He thought of her son, a child with an attractive, curly-haired wildness about him. He had laughingly flung himself at his mother like a whirlwind as soon as he’d entered the room. Maxim had seen how she’d been with the boy. They’d shared a sense of belonging, an integral part of each other. They had something he didn’t.
He smiled to himself, remembering it, but then a more pressing matter entered his thoughts and he became preoccupied with discovering the identity of whoever it was who had tried to end his life. Whoever was behind it, the incident could not be ignored. A cold, hard core of fury was growing inside him, shattering every other emotion he’d ever felt, leaving him incapable of feeling anything other than the need to find the person responsible.
